


The Question

by S_A (magicom)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:06:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicom/pseuds/S_A
Summary: Ainsley has to decide between being a successful reporter and being a good sister.
Comments: 38
Kudos: 150





	1. An Indecent Proposal

Ainsley Whitly was grabbing her morning coffee on the way to work when her phone rang. Leslie, her producer. She hesitated, then picked it up.

“Hi Leslie,” she said in her best 'everything is GREAT' voice.

“Ainsley, hi, how's your head?” she asked, but she didn't really wait for a response. It had been a couple weeks after all. “Listen, I've been thinking about what you said, wanting to do your Martin Whitly follow up on the victims and I think I might have a compromise for you. A recording just landed on my desk and, if it's as good as my source says, it will really work as a bookend for your story. We can shift the focus from the criminal to the people who put themselves on the line to stop them. Get up here as soon as you get in and we'll take a look at it.”

Ainsley was wary as she walked into Leslie's office a short time later, coffee cup still clutched in her hand, but she hid the wariness the same way she hid her nerves when she went on camera and smiled broadly.

“A recording,” she remarked. “Sounds promising. Where did you get it?”

Leslie matched her smile when she spotted Ainsley and gestured to a chair at her desk, turning her computer so they could both see the screen.

“You're not the only one in town with inside sources. I know a couple of people in the NYPD. Apparently they did a psych evaluation of one of their consultants recently and it was all recorded. My source said it went on all day, but he got part of it and he promises me it's _compelling_. He told me this guy is known for doing crazy things all the time, but their solve rate on violent crimes has gone way up since they started using him.”

“What sort of consultant? Like a medical expert or something?”

“A behavioural scientist. He consults as a profiler. Anyway, I googled the guy and his work is definitely known in the online true crime communities.” Leslie was excited. “He's supposed to be one of the best in the country, but a bit unorthodox, which is perfect.”

Ainsley was staring at her by then, as she pulled up the file of the recording in her computer.

Leslie looked at her. “What?”

“A profiler. That isn't a cop. Just a consultant.” she asked.

“Yeah. I mean, the FBI keep profilers on staff, but local police don't tend to.” She looked at Ainsley oddly. “I'm pretty sure it's normal.” Then she laughed. “Well. Not _too_ normal, I hope.”

“I don't see much chance of that,” Ainsley said under her breath.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing. Let's see it,” Ainsley said with her Resolved Face on.

Ainsley's stomach had started a low sink towards her feet when Leslie described the unorthodox profiler that consulted with the NYPD, but it dropped the rest of the way when Malcolm Bright's face came on the screen in profile, speaking to an older man she assumed was the psychiatrist conducting the review.

“Electroshock. You're kidding,” the older man was saying as the clip began.

“Tristan's burns indicated he went through the same treatment,” Malcolm told him matter-of-factly.

“That procedure is only administered after psychiatric review, with certified technicians and anaesthesia. Vossler's out of his mind!” the other man exclaimed. He leaned forward. “So what did you do?”

“Oh, I let him shock me,” Malcolm admitted freely.

Ainsley's eyebrows shot up.

Leslie looked at her, delighted, totally misinterpreting her reaction. “I know, right?”

“You LET him shock you!” the older man said, raising his voice.

“You're _angry_ ,” Malcolm noted, holding up a placating hand.

“Yeah! People like Vossler make me angry!” the man said, pushing himself out of his chair to pace by the window. “The false promises that he makes. The way he appeals to the vulnerable.”

Malcolm leaned forward. “I _wasn't_ vulnerable,” he explained confidently. “I was trying to solve a case.”

“ _Really_ ,” the other man said, unconvinced, leaning on the back of his chair to meet Malcolm's eyes. “When Vossler promised to erase your pain, some part of you wanted to believe that he could. Wasn't that more important than the case?”

“ _Nothing's_ more important than the case,” Malcolm told him with matter-of-fact conviction.

“Oh, explain _that_ to me,” the psychiatrist said in a tone that suggested he'd never heard such bullshit in his entire life.

Malcolm smiled faintly and glanced at the desk, then looked up at the other man. “I grew up inside a case, living with a killer. If I'd have solved that one faster, more people would have been saved,” he said firmly.

Ainsley's hand flew to her mouth before she could stop it.

“When I put myself in danger to find a killer,” Malcolm continued on the screen, “I'm not thinking about _me_. I'm thinking about _them_. The _victims_. People like Andi.”

Leslie hit stop. “I think it'll cut into the introduction to the interview nicely. But see what I mean? _That_ is how you work the victims into a piece so it's not a snoozefest. You have a telegenic investigator talk about sacrificing himself to save them,” she explained with immense satisfaction. “I mean, obviously we have to find out a lot more about him. What did he mean that he grew up inside a case with a killer? Oh, hey! Maybe you two can bond over that so you can gain his trust and all that.”

“Leslie...”

Leslie was already pulling out her notes. “I'll tell you what I got from my source and you can go from there. His name is Malcolm Bright. He used to work for the FBI. Word is he got fired from there, so that'll be some good background to have on him...”

“ _Leslie_.”

She looked up from her notes to Ainsley's face and it clearly was not sparkling with the light of the pursuit of a story and ambition that Leslie was expecting.

“What? What is it?”

“I don't think we should... I mean, you heard what that guy said about him trying to electroshock his pain away.”

“Yeah, I did. That's riveting television, Ainsley. That's what people want to see. I mean, he's the complete package: beautiful, vulnerable, self-sacrificing. Our viewers will eat it _up_.” She poked her pen in Ainsley's direction. “You need to find out how to get in touch with this guy and get him to agree to an exclusive interview using _all_ your Ainsley Whitly charm.”

Ainsley looked down at the desk, conflicted. Part of her wanted to just run with it. She could talk him into it, right? She could push him to do it. Coerce and cajole him into it and get _all_ the accolades for pulling another one out of her hat. But she remembered what he looked like when he pulled himself out of that hole under their house a couple of weeks earlier and the other part of her told her she was a terrible person for even considering doing that to him after everything he'd been through.

She deflated slightly.

“Leslie, he won't agree to an interview. He won't do press.”

Leslie raised her eyebrows. “How do you know? Have you run into him at crime scenes?”

Ainsley took a deep breath. She still had an out. Yes, she could tell her. Yes, she ran into him at crime scenes and he was having none of the cameras in his face. She pressed her lips together.

“Leslie, Malcolm Bright is my brother,” she admitted.

Leslie's eyes widened. “Malcolm Bright is Malcolm _Whitly_?”

Ainsley nodded. “He changed it before he applied to Quantico.”

“The FBI,” she noted. “Annnnd then....” she put the pieces together. “He got fired. And.... came home.”

Ainsley nodded again.

“Well, this is making an even better bookend to your Martin Whitly interview than I thought it would. Go from the story of the monster father to the story of his son, who hunts killers because he blames himself for not stopping the killer that raised him...”

“Leslie, he was _eleven_ when he turned our father in. He couldn't ha....”

“ _He_ turned your father in? Holy shit. His first bust was his _dad_. I love it.”

“He won't do an interview, Leslie. I know he won't.”

“You haven't even asked him yet,” she pointed out. “And if he won't do an interview, you do a bio. Cut in portions of this interview with the psychiatrist. Family photos, which you must have access to. You narrate his story, if he refuses to tell it. I bet we can find footage of him at crime scenes in some of our coverage. Interview people who worked with him at the FBI. Interview people who work with him now.”

“I don't think... “ Ainsley took another breath. “No. He's... dealing with enough. I can't.”

Leslie stood up. “Ainsley, I like you. You have talent and ambition and that can get you far. But let me put it this way: the Malcolm Whitly story is going to be our big post-Superbowl special and if you won't tell it, I'll find another reporter who will. It's happening one way or another. It won't be as good as it would be from you, but it'll still be _awesome_ , because _look_ at this guy,” she said, gesturing to the screen. “It'll be a ratings winner and it can be yours _so_ easily. You've lived most of the research already. Think about it. Let me know by tomorrow.”


	2. Siblings By Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley comes clean to Malcolm.

Ainsley left the building after her conversation with Leslie with that video clip from the precinct still ringing in her ears. She headed to Malcolm's apartment. Their mother had told her that he was on mandatory vacation from work and that was supposed to be for another week and a half. When she got to his door, she pressed the buzzer.

It took a moment for the answer to come.

“Hello?”

“Malcolm, it's me, Ainsley.”

“Come on up.” The door buzzed open.

Malcolm was wearing a cream coloured cable knit sweater over dark jeans. It looked odd on him at lunchtime on a Wednesday. He favoured three piece suits for work. But he wasn't working. He also still sported a bulky cast on his left hand. She hadn't been in his apartment for some time, but it looked the same as she remembered from when he first moved back. Cases of medieval weapons on the wall, large windows, tidy row of pill bottles on the counter, restraints on the bed.

Seeing him made her angry at him, suddenly. As he looked at her to greet her, she lashed out and punched him in the shoulder.

He gave her an odd look. “Ow,” he said calmly. “What's going on?”

“What's going _on_?” she ranted at him, punching him again, though he brought his arm up to deflect that one. “What's going _on_? You let some guy electroshock you, you moron! _That_ is what's going on!”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “You _are_ annoyingly good at your job. How did you even _know_ about that?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder faintly before turning to pick up his cup. He held it up towards her. “Tea?”

“Don't offer me tea like you're not a moron,” she huffed, but her anger was quickly losing its momentum. She set her bag on one of the chairs at the kitchen island and shrugged off her coat.

“Sparkling water, then?”

“If you have lemon,” she replied irritably.

“Of course I have lemon,” he assured her. He went to the fridge and took out the water, pouring a glass before dropping in a lemon wedge, then he set it in front of her. He folded his hands on the counter, raising an eyebrow at her.

“So? Who told you about the electroshock?”

“My _boss_ ,” she said miserably. “Who thinks you're just scrumptious, by the way.”

He looked a little uncertain how to take that. “....Th....ank you?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don't thank me. I don't have anything good to tell you today.”

She was half tempted to ask him to put some gin in that water, but it sounded too much like their mother. _God_ , their mother. If she was mad about Ainsley interviewing her father, she could only imagine the new one she was about to be torn if she put her damaged, recovering from being tortured in a basement brother on TV and made him talk about his pain.

He raised his eyebrows. “Why did you come, Ains?”

He was studying her face. She could see it. He was reading her the way he read everyone.

“Malcolm, my boss wants me to do a special report on you. Like I did on dad.”

He laughed, because that had to be a joke. She didn't laugh. His expression grew concerned.

“What? No,” he told her. “No way.”

“ _Malcolm_ , it's not as simple as that, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Because she's obsessed with your story now. If I don't do it, she'll get someone else to do it.”

“If I won't give _you_ an interview, I'm sure not going to give one to anyone else. Television is _your_ thing, Ains. No, thank you. I've been ripped open once this month and that's my limit. I'm not doing it in front of a national audience,” he said, holding up his hand.

“If she can't get an interview, she'll settle for a profile. She'd be perfectly fine with some hack and _The Unauthorized Story of Malcolm Whitly_.” She put her head in her hands.

Malcolm frowned. “How did she even find _out_ about me?” he asked suspiciously.

Ainsley knew what that suspicion was about. “I didn't bring it up,” she said, holding up a finger. “Someone in the police department gave her a recording of your psychiatric evaluation. That's how I knew about the electroshock,” she told him earnestly.

He looked gobsmacked, reeling for just a second. “Wait, wait, wait, wait. The press has a copy of my _psych evaluation_? That _has_ to be against the law,” he said, already calculating how he'd sue it back from them if he had to. But then he stilled. Oh. She'd _seen_ it. He frowned. “How much of it did you _see_ , exactly?”

“The part about the electroshock and you were talking about how you put yourself on the line to stop killers because you couldn't stop dad.” She threw her head back and groaned at the ceiling. “God, my boss loved that part. She wants to use it in the intro.”

“No. No, there's not going to be any 'intro' and she can't use that tape. She obtained it illegally. There are _privacy_ laws, Ainsley.”

“Privacy laws. How long will that take? They're going to air this after the Superbowl. You don't know what this industry is like, Malcolm.”

“Oh, I think I _do_ ,” he retorted. “I think they're mining your life for ratings and I wonder what they're going to do with you when they're done.”

She looked up at him defiantly. “They're going to give me a big promotion and put me on the news desk, I expect.” She stood and started gathering up her coat and her bag.

He sighed and glanced down, calming himself before looking back at her. “Ainsley, wait.”

“I was really hoping you'd work _with_ me on this, Malcolm. I didn't want to do it like this,” she said, shrugging her coat back on.

His eyes went wide. “Wait, you're going to _do_ it?”

“I _have_ to do it, Malcolm. I know you can't see it, but it's better for you if I do. I don't expect you to be grateful,” she informed him, slinging the bag over her shoulder and heading for the door. “But you're welcome,” she added, sweeping out of the apartment and down the stairs.

He just stared at the door as it slammed behind her.


	3. Determination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley accepts the assignment. Malcolm shows up at her office.

Ainsley headed back to the studio, quietly fuming. Fuming about Leslie and fuming about Malcolm's stupid job and his stupid electroshock and the stupid attention he always got no matter how hard he tried not to. That was the irony of their lives, wasn't it? He didn't want attention but he couldn't shake it and she did want it but she couldn't hold it. Not on her own, anyway. Even their father was different with him. Drawn to him. Weirdly pleased to see him.

She couldn't stay mad at Malcolm, though, as she flopped into the seat at her desk. She never had been able to. She really couldn't when she was about to ruin his already bruised and scarred life. Obviously the point of the piece was to paint him in a good light; Leslie wanted to contrast the hero to the villain. That was the only way she'd be able to get through it at all, but – again – there was the attention Malcolm didn't want, focused on him. Nationwide. Battering at his fragile mental state. What kind of sickos would come out of the woodwork to challenge him or even to fawn over him? She received letters after the piece on the Surgeon aired. Letters that weren't directed at Ainsley so much as at the daughter of Martin Whitly. Letters interested in the macabre details of the serial killer's life and the walking, talking memorabilia he left behind when he went to prison. She'd thought the comment sections of her reports online were gross _before_ people knew she was _that_ kind of Whitly. They got out of hand after that. Ainsley had always been able to shake things off. Malcolm absorbed things. She knew he did. He could pretend he was fine. She knew better.

She never had mentioned those letters to Malcolm or their mother. Better not to.

A flash drive was sitting on her desk. A copy of the video Leslie had shown her. She picked it up and turned it over between her fingers. Was it an invasion of Malcolm's privacy? Absolutely. But the choice had clearly been between her invading Malcolm's privacy with a certain amount of her own discretion or someone else doing it with no regard for him at all. She took a deep breath and pulled out her laptop, opening it up to send Leslie an email accepting the assignment. Then she popped the flashdrive in and transferred the video to her hard drive. She had two weeks to put together a story that gave Leslie all the juice she wanted without destroying her brother. She could do this. _Put your reporter hat on, Ainsley_.

She put her headphones on and started the recording, this time with the scrutinizing eye of a storyteller.

_So what did you do?_

_Oh, I let him shock me._

She was nearing the end of the clip when a hand on her shoulder startled her and she jumped slightly, pulling her headphones off as she turned to see who was there.

“I'm not sure they got my best side,” Malcolm deadpanned. He held a tray with two hot beverages in it in his good hand and he offered her the one closest to her. “Almond milk latte. One pump of caramel.”

“You don't have a bad side,” she told him like the notion disgusted her, taking the drink from the tray. “I'd say 'ask my boss', but I can't do another round of hearing about how hot you are.”

He set the tray on her desk, holding it down with the fingers sticking out of his cast so he could yank his own tea out with the other hand, then pulled up a random chair to sit down. “I know. I had to start avoiding the comment sections of your reports a long time ago.”

She laughed, then looked down at the coffee cup, fiddling with the cardboard sleeve for a moment. It was funny how their thoughts sometimes echoed each other like that. Did all siblings have that? Did they have that because of the way it was after their father was arrested, when they only really had each other? She looked over at him. “Did you come to talk about the story?”

He shrugged a shoulder, fidgeting at his own cup. “Maybe I came to steal my tape back,” he teased.

“Wow, so sorry that it's digital and you'll never track them all down.”

“Foiled by modern technology. Do you ever long for the days of microfilm? I could have hidden it inside an exotic statue and smuggled it out in my briefcase.”

“You could have stuck it down your cast. They'd never look there.”

He turned the cast this way and that, considering it. “That somehow lacks flair.”

“Well, we can't be lacking flair. What would our mother say?”

“She'd say 'what in _God's_ name are you two up to _now_?',” he suggested.

She laughed again. He'd always had a way of doing that, no matter how shit everything was. “Accurate,” she conceded. She sobered. “Malcolm...”

He put his tea down and held up his hand. “Ains, if you _have_ to do it, I want a say in how it goes.”

She nodded. “I told you: I wanted you to work _with_ me on this.”

He leaned forward in earnest. “I mean on the finished product, Ainsley. I understand why we don't see Jin around anymore. Do you?”

Her expression darkened and he held up a finger.

“No. No, no. I want you to really understand what I'm telling you. You _cannot_ get so caught up in the story that you forget who you're hurting. I'm not going to tell you how to do your job, but if I tell you you're crossing a line I don't want crossed, I need to know you're going to respect that. You can't do this story and make it about dad or your boss or your ratings, because in the end, after everyone else has forgotten about it, it's still going to be about you and me. I don't want to agree to do this with you and come out the other side of it never trusting you again.”

“I don't want that either,” she said as though it shouldn't need said.

“I know you don't. Right _now_. But we need to talk about it now for... a week from now. For... after you present the first cut. For the moment you get so involved in creating the most compelling story possible that you forget about this conversation, Ainsley. I _get it_. I get caught up in things too.”

“Things like crimes,” she pointed out.

“Mostly,” he conceded.

“Is that why you let that guy shock you?”

“...Mostly,” he conceded again, though in that case there was clearly more to it.

She raised her eyebrows. He shook his head.

“My point is, when that happens, I need to know you _can_ stop.”

She met his gaze, holding it for a long moment. “Can _you_ stop?”

“I _had_ to stop,” he pointed out. Enforced vacation. Gil wouldn't let him near the precinct.

“How's that been?”

He shook his head and huffed a humourless laugh down at her desk, then looked at her. “Too much time to think is.... bad for me,” he said in all honesty.

Ainsley put her coffee down and leaned forward clutching the fingers on his casted hand with hers. “I won't betray your trust, Malcolm.”


	4. Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malcolm and Leslie negotiate the terms of the interview.

Two days later, Malcolm showed up at the news studio in an impeccable grey suit and a blue tie, his hand still in a cast but he looked otherwise perfectly put together. Leslie's notes to Ainsley had suggested trying to get him to interview in his own apartment or, perhaps, the Whitly family home. He'd refused both. He'd come to negotiate the rest of his terms.

Leslie came down to greet him personally when she heard he was in the building.

“You must be Malcolm,” she said extending her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

He shook her hand, nodding without really returning the sentiment.

She didn't seem to notice. She did notice the cast on his hand. “What happened to your hand?” she asked with some degree of interest.

He glanced down at the cast. “Shattered first metacarpal,” he told her.

“Ouch!” she replied good-naturedly. “How'd you do that?”

“With a ball-peen hammer,” he said, completely deadpan.

She looked at him a moment, then looked at Ainsley and laughed. “He's funny. I like that!”

“I bet you do,” Malcolm remarked with an ironed on smile.

Leslie looked at him. “Sorry, what?”

“It makes good television, right?”

“Oh! Yes. Exactly.” She made a sweeping gesture towards the elevator. “My office is just this way.”

Once the Whitly siblings were settled in chairs across from Leslie, Malcolm didn't waste time with anymore pleasantries.

“You can't use any part of the psychiatric evaluation tape,” he said firmly.

Leslie opened her mouth to protest and he held up his hand.

“You can't use _any_ part of that recording. Even with my permission, it'd be sticky, but I won't grant it. If you broadcast it, I _will_ sue this station down to local ham radio. I'll take the news desk and put it in my livingroom so I can sit at it while I watch the news on a station that's still in business,” he explained to her evenly.

She sat back in her chair. “If you're going to consent to an interview, I suppose we can go without the tape,” she conceded.

He tilted his head to acknowledge her concession. “I'm willing to speak on Dr Whitly and his crimes to a limited extent. I'm happy to talk about my career in law enforcement...”

Leslie was nodding along.

“But I don't want my face to be visible on screen.”

Leslie raised an eyebrow. “No way. It's the best thing about you.”

“I thought you wanted the _story_ ,” Malcolm retorted.

“I want the story in a pretty package,” she told him bluntly.

“That's not up to you,” Malcolm informed her. “Malcolm Whitly got to struggle through middle school and high school and college before he disappeared into the ether. I don't mind being known in certain circles for my work as a criminal profiler, but I didn't change my name so I could be famous as the son of the Surgeon.”

Leslie got up and came around the desk to perch on the edge of it.

“Malcolm, middle school was a long time ago,” she told him. “Don't be a prisoner of your past.”

“That's rich coming from someone asking me to revisit my past.”

“I'm offering you the opportunity to be the one to tell your story,” Leslie insisted. “You get to be the version of Malcolm Whitly _you_ want to be.”

“I don't want to be _any_ version of Malcolm Whitly,” he replied simply. “That's why that's not my name.”

“Be the one to tell the story, Malcolm. Control the narrative.”

“Or you'll do it for me? And I'm not going to like it?”

Leslie huffed a laugh. “I hate having to stoop to ultimatums.”

“But you're not above doing it.”

“You don't get where I am today by playing nice,” she told him.

“No,” he conceded. “And I imagine a woman in this world had to step twice as fast and twice as hard to get anywhere.”

He was studying her face. Ainsley recognized what was happening and gave him a warning look, but he didn't notice.

“You could say that,” Leslie admitted.

“When you first got into journalism, what did you want to get out of it?” he asked curiously. “What were you hoping to achieve? You can't have been thinking about ratings. Not then.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I suppose I wanted to blow open stories of crime and corruption that would change the world.”

“For the better, I assume. You wanted to root out evil so you could make society a better place.”

She nodded.

“You don't want that anymore?”

“I grew up, Malcolm.”

“What's the definition of growing up? Learning to help yourself instead of others?”

“Don't get holier than thou with me. I report the _news_. That's what journalism _is_.”

“Journalism is speaking the truth to power, even when it hurts and even when nobody wants to hear it. Journalism keeps democracies honest, when it's pursued with integrity.” He paused, assessing her expression. “ _That's_ what you wanted to do with your life. How did you get to the point of dragging random people through the mud for a few bucks?”

She smiled thinly, unamused.

“Mr Bright,” she began. He wasn't 'Malcolm' anymore as she walked back around her desk and sat down. “You're hardly a 'random' person. You're a loose cannon police resource that was _fired_ by the FBI for God knows what, though I intend to find out,” she told him crisply. “If you won't do an interview – on camera – I'm sure the viewing public would be more than happy to tune in to the rollercoaster ride that is the life of Malcolm Whitly, son of the Surgeon. With or without the psych evaluation, I'm pretty sure I can find enough material in the public domain to put something together. I expect I could even talk your father into commenting; he seems to enjoy talking about what a great father he was. Maybe he'd be able to tell us where he went wrong to cause his own son to turn him in.”

Malcolm's right hand started to tremble and he clenched it into a fist on his knee. Back behind her desk, Leslie didn't notice, but Ainsley did.

“Malcolm, can you give us a second, please?” she interjected.

Malcolm got up. “Take as many as you need,” he told her, his gaze still locked on Leslie. “This is over. And your little story will never go to air,” he promised before turning and walking out the door.

As soon as it shut behind him, Ainsley got up and looked at Leslie. “Listen, you can't _make_ him do anything. He'll push back twice as hard.”

“A Whitly trait, is it?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at Ainsley.

Ainsley took a breath. “Just let me handle it. I can bring him around, but when he comes back, you can't....” She waved her hand at the space between Malcolm's chair and the desk “Any of that.”

“He started it,” Leslie pointed out.

“So don't take the bait,” Ainsley said just as reasonably. “Do you want the story or not? You know an interview is going to go over _way_ better than any reconstituted old footage fish fingers of a documentary.”

Leslie tapped her fingers on the desk for a moment, considering Ainsley.

“Okay,” she said. “Get him back. But we need to get rolling on this and he _has_ to agree to appear on camera.”


	5. Crazy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley follows up with Malcolm after he left Leslie's office.

For the second time in the same week, Ainsley pressed the buzzer on Malcolm's apartment building. It was a long moment before he answered.

“Yes?”

“It's me. Buzz me up.”

There was a long enough pause before the buzzer sounded that she almost pressed the button again, thinking he wasn't going to do it. When it buzzed, she slipped into the building and up to his door. It was open.

“Malcolm?” she called, walking into the apartment.

He was at the kitchen island, making a pot of tea. He'd taken off his jacket, but he was still wearing the rest of the suit he'd had on at the station. He didn't answer her; he expected she'd root out his location in the big open space. He did take down a second teacup, though. No need to be rude.

She did spot him a moment later and walked over, staying respectfully on her side of the counter, peeling off her coat and putting it on one of the stools there with her bag like she had the last time.

“Malcolm...” She wasn't sure what to say.

He put the box of tea down on the counter a little harder than necessary and turned around.

“TV is _your_ thing, Ains. I do _not_ want people to know who I _am_.”

“Well, that part is unavoidable at this point...”

“Is it?” He leaned over the counter towards her. “Remember dad's murder trial? The picture they put on the front page of me on the stand?”

He was small and wide eyed with trepidation in a witness box made for grown men. He'd been sitting on a phone book so he could see over it.

“It had been bad enough, kids at school knowing what happened. Teachers. People in the neighbourhood. Suddenly the whole _world_ seemed to know. They knew I was the kid whose dad was a serial killer. Have you been enjoying being that kid since the interview aired?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “There's a side to it that I would agree isn't... savoury.”

“But it's helped your career. You had something to gain.” He stood up and spread his arms. “What do _I_ have to gain? It's only going to make _my_ job more difficult.”

She put her hands down flat on the counter. “I want to do this in a way that you're comfortable with,” she began.

Malcolm snorted. She glared at him.

“ _But_ ,” she soldiered on, “Leslie is standing firm on broadcasting some unauthorized account if you don't do the interview. _On_ camera.”

“Well, I guess Leslie is in for a surprise,” he said testily.

“You provoked her on purpose, Malcolm.”

“I had to find out how far she was going to go,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“We agreed to work together on this,” Ainsley shot back.

“And I'd trust that, if it were just the two of us in this, but you _answer_ to her. She's going to have the final say in what goes on the air and I don't trust her. I don't trust her not to use that tape. I don't trust her not to throw in some 'unauthorized bio' nonsense about my childhood or dad's trial or the FBI even if I _do_ the interview. Maybe _you_ have my best interests in mind, but she sure as hell doesn't. She wants something salacious because salacious gets eyeballs.”

“Then I guess it's truly in your best interests to make sure I retain creative control and the best way to do that is to _cooperate_.”

“And by 'cooperate', you mean appear on camera. I'm not comfortable with that, Ainsley. I'm _not_.”

The kettle clicked off and he turned to fill the teapot. Ainsley watched his back as he worked and could see the tension in his shoulders and across his shoulderblades.

“I know,” she told him. “And, yeah, it's probably going to cause some issues for you for a little bit. But it'll blow over.”

He turned and leveled his gaze at her.

“My less salacious take will blow over faster than her salacious unauthorized bio,” she pointed out.

He huffed a sigh and leaned on the counter, glancing around like he was looking for an escape route.

“Malcolm,” she said, leaning forward, placing her arms on the counter, “what _did_ happen at the FBI? Why did they fire you?”

“The real reason or the reason _they'd_ give?” he asked, wondering if he was going to end up an inside source on himself. “And is this on or off the record?” he added as an afterthought.

She rolled her eyes, but didn't pretend there was no reason for him to ask. “Off.”

“Ostensibly it was because I punched a sheriff that shot a suspect who'd put his gun down.”

“That's murder.”

“I know that. But they backed his account instead of mine.”

She gave him a look that suggested that was crazy. “Why would they do that?”

“Because of the real reason they fired me. They thought I was deranged and that I'm going to turn into dad.”

Her eyes widened. “That's... that's discrimination!” she exclaimed.

“It had been coming for a while,” Malcolm said. He turned to fill her teacup and then turned back to her to set it in front of her. He met her eyes. “Once they found out who I was, they were looking for a reason.”

She opened and closed her mouth. That was so much more than annoying, creepy letters.

He poured his own cup in the meantime, then joined her at the island again. “It's not like I give off massively sane vibes,” he pointed out. He met her eyes, needing to ensure she was listening and that she understood. “I'm mentally ill.”

“You are _not_.”

He raised his eyebrows. She was literally sitting next to a row of pill bottles his psychiatrist had prescribed for his litany of mental illnesses.

She huffed a sigh. “Okay, but you're not ill like _dad_. You have PTSD. _Because_ of dad.”

He shrugged. “I'm crazy. He's crazy. It's all the same to them.”

She scrubbed her hands over her face. “Okay, but. Then this is something we need to talk about in the interview. How his fame has affected you. The discrimination you've faced.”

He barked a brief laugh. “No. You know what I don't need on top of being the Surgeon's son? Being the Surgeon's _crazy_ son.”

“ _Malcolm_...”

“Oh! I have an idea, though. Leslie wants her interview to be pretty. How about this: you hire an actor and I'll give him my answers and he can read them. Like a dramatic reenactment.”

“Be _serious_.”

“I'm _being_ serious. This is a compromise where everyone can win.”

“This is journalism, Malcolm, not a play.”

“Why can't it be both?”

“Because Leslie already knows what you _look_ like.”

“So? Get her to agree to it.”

Ainsley pinched the bridge of her nose. Why did this have to happen to her? Was this the Whitly curse? Having to deal with the rest of the Whitlys?

“Malcolm, today has been... a lot, okay. So why don't we talk about it tomorrow? I'll bring you a coffee and we can just... talk about it.” She slid off her stool and held up a warning finger. “But no actors, okay? It's not going to happen.”

“None of it's going to happen,” he told her.

“No. Don't try that. Mom tried to block the interview with dad and it didn't work and you don't have _half_ her clout,” she said, picking up her coat to shrug it on.

He crossed his arms. She picked up her bag.

“Just consider it, Malcolm. Consider how you want this to go and remember that I actually give a crap about you, so I'm the best way to go here.”

“I can remember that part,” he told her. “But it doesn't make me feel a whole lot better about fundamentally not having a choice.”

She walked around the counter and kissed his cheek. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she told him, patting his arm just above the cast and then heading out of the apartment.

When she got home, she sat on the couch for a long time, staring out at the skyline of the city, watching the sun go down. Was she really doing what was best for Malcolm? She had to believe that she was. She wasn't sure she could forgive herself if she was manipulating him.

_I'm crazy. He's crazy. It's all the same to them._

The shape of the questions was beginning to form in her mind. She grabbed a notepad and started jotting them down.


	6. The Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley manages to pull off the interview.

Ainsley fell asleep in front of the TV, her notepad having slid out of her lap and onto the floor at some point in the night. In the wee hours of the morning, when her eyes fluttered open, a true crime special, where a former motorcycle gang informant was telling a reporter his story, was on. She canted her head, staring at it for a moment without really seeing it, and then something solidified in her mind.

He wasn't on camera. Not _really_. He was there in silhouette, but they didn't give his name or show his face to protect his identity.

She reached down and grabbed her notepad, skimming over her notes from the night before. This could work. This format wouldn't be Leslie's first choice – no big blue eyes on screen – but Ainsley was sure she could sell the story – current name and face hidden to protect the innocent – in a way that would convince Leslie to accept it: just onscreen _enough_ to intrigue. And without his identity blown, she would bet money she could get Malcolm to talk more about the things that would draw people in: his relationship with his father, his mental health struggles, how he came into a career in law enforcement and what he sacrificed for it. And why. Without using the psych evaluation tape, maybe she could get him to explain the same driving force to the same effect. She'd use anonymity to get him to open up.

She tossed the notepad aside onto the couch and got up. She had to shower and get dressed and get over to Malcolm's loft.

She arrived at Malcolm's with a tray containing two coffees, just as she'd promised, and pressed the buzzer. It was a moment before he answered, but not as long as the evening before. Maybe he wasn't mad at her anymore. When she walked into his apartment, she could see his yoga mat was still on the floor. She'd probably interrupted. A french press full of coffee sat on the counter beside the little card holder of affirmations and the neat row of pill bottles. He padded around the island in bare feet, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. She was the decidedly overdressed one at the moment, in her suit and frilly blouse. She set the tray on the counter and hopped up onto one of the stools while he opened a bottle of water and took a drink.

“Got you an Americano. Black, no sugar,” she told him.

He set the bottle down and reached for it, though he still had yet to say anything. Maybe he was still a _little_ mad. She wouldn't let it deter her.

“I had a brainstorm last night,” she announced. “Well. Early this morning.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh? Do tell.”

++++++++

In the studio a couple of days later, the Whitly siblings sat in front of a brightly lit background, a spotlight on Ainsley, but none on Malcolm. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Are you sure you can't see my face?”

“Positive,” Ainsley told him. “Come on. You're anonymous. We'll alter your voice down a tone in post.”

“Oh. Well. As long as I sound more masculine...” he replied in a distracted sarcasm as he looked around with concern.

“ _Malcolm_. Stop fidgeting. It's going to work perfectly. Pay attention.”

“You sound like every teacher I've ever had.”

She gave him an exasperated look.

He tugged at his jacket and glanced at her. “Sorry.”

“Okay. Let's roll.”

Ainsley faced the camera and waited for the signal.

“Good evening. After my interview with Dr Martin Whitly – also known as The Surgeon - there has been a lot of public interest in other parts of the story. In particular, what happened to his son, Malcolm, after his very public testimony in his father's murder trial at the age of eleven? For anyone who's looked, they'll have found that Malcolm Whitly disappeared from record some time in 2009. About ten years after the trial, he left New York, took a new name and started a new life in law enforcement. Tonight, for the purposes of this interview and to protect his current identity, we'll be using his birth name.”

A red light came on the camera in front of Malcolm and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. Ainsley half-turned towards him.

“Welcome, Malcolm.”

“...Thanks?”

“Malcolm, why don't you tell us some more about why you felt you had to leave New York and change your name after finishing college.”

“Well, I was trying to avoid the press, actually, but for some reason I stayed in touch with my sister....”

She gave him a flat look. “You're hilarious.”

“No? I guess we'll let your viewers decide,” he said amicably.

“ _Malcolm_.”

“Oh. Right. Well, largely it had been hard enough to be taken seriously at school with his name and I was pretty sure if I kept it and tried to get into any law enforcement agency in the country, I'd have... whatever the opposite of nepotism is. I never have come up with the word...” In silhouette, he held up a finger suddenly. “Which is what ended up happening anyway. ….But.... it took a lot longer?” He shrugged. “I've settled into a role now. It just hasn't always gone smoothly.”

“But why law enforcement? Surely there must have been career options that would have been more... accepting of your situation.”

“...My _situation_?” Malcolm said, clearly not pleased with that label. “Which 'situation' is that? My serial murderer father's shadow hanging over my life or the litany of mental illnesses he gifted me? I don't know. Maybe. Possibly there would have been an easy career path out there for me to do something I love less. I never looked into it.”

“'Discrimination' is the word you were looking for,” Ainsley said evenly.

Malcolm's jaw flexed slightly, but he didn't say anything, glancing down at the floor.

“Mental illness is stigmatized. What happened to you at the FBI was discrimination.”

“Not that anyone can prove,” he told her combatively.

“Why don't you take us through what happened?” she suggested.

“Because I don't want to,” he countered.

Ainsley took a breath and let it out. “Malcolm...”

“This isn't what I agreed to talk about,” he told her.

She huffed a breath. “Okay. Let's talk about dad's murder trial,” she ventured.

“What about it?” he asked too politely.

“You made the call to the police that lead to his arrest because of things you saw in the basement. You testified about them at the murder trial.”

“That's a matter of public record.”

“Nobody's ever heard the story from your point of view before,” she pointed out. “You were eleven years old. It was already the trial of the century. Did they give you the option not to take the stand?”

There was a pause. “When you're eleven, you don't have 'options',” he said wryly.

“If memory serves, our mother tried to get you out of it.” Ainsley distinctly remembered her screaming at her lawyer on the phone about it.

“I didn't _want_ out of it.”

“Why not?”

“Because unlike being followed home from school by reporters, it actually served a purpose. It helped put a bad man in prison so he couldn't hurt any more people. It gave the families of his victims closure.”

“You couldn't have understood that when you were _eleven_.”

“No? I didn't call the police because what I saw in the basement startled me, Ainsley. If you're a startled child, you run to your parents, you don't dial 9-1-1. When I saw what he did, I understood what he _was_ and that someone had to do something about it.”

“For the viewing public trying to follow along, what _did_ you see in the basement, Malcolm?”

“One of his victims. A woman whose body has never been found or identified. In a box,” he said solemnly.

“In a box?”

“Curled up in the fetal position inside an old travel trunk.”

“So when you were eleven, you found a dead body in the basement of our house.”

Malcolm looked at her, his silhouette turning to profile. “I was ten and she wasn't dead.”

“She _wasn't_ dead.”

“No. We saw each other.”

Ainsley just stared at him for a moment and then realized she wasn't talking. “Wait, but when the police got there she was gone?”

“Dr Whitly found me there. I... think I screamed when I saw her. He grabbed me from behind and chloroformed me. Then he continued chloroforming me. So I'd forget. That's a side effect of chloroform, the amnesia. I don't know how much time passed between the night I found her and the night I called the police. I only have fragments of memory from that time. But when the police came, the box was empty. I didn't understand that I was missing time. I didn't understand where she could have gone. But it turns out he had an accomplice and he had ample time.”

There was a pause that Ainsley let go on, because she sensed he was going to add something, and he did in a quieter and more haunted tone.

“When I called them, I thought I was saving her.”

“Is that why working in law enforcement is so important to you?”

“The people I _can_ save are important to me.”


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ainsley goes to see Malcolm one more time, to let him know how his interview went over.

Ainsley thought she might find Malcolm at home. He still had just under a week on his minimum forced vacation and their mother was talking about sending him to Tahiti for a week on top of that, so he could 'relax'. At least, she had been a couple of days earlier. Ainsley had been avoiding her since Malcolm's interview aired. She hadn't exactly informed Jessica Whitly that such a thing was happening and clearly Malcolm hadn't either, based on the messages their enraged matriarch had left on her voicemail.

She buzzed the intercom to Malcolm's apartment.

“Hello?”

“It's me. Buzz me up.”

The door buzzed and she pushed it open, making her way up like she had previously.

Malcolm was, once again, behind the kitchen island, like it was a barrier between him and whatever the world swept in his door. He was dressed in jeans and a long sleeved black t-shirt. He put the kettle on.

“I'm not doing a follow-up,” he said, pointing sternly, before she even got a word in.

She held up her hands. “I'm not here to ask you for anything. I thought you might want to know how the ratings were,” she said coyly, shrugging off her coat and purse and putting them as usual, on the stool next to the one she hopped up on.

“I really could not care less,” he said pleasantly, but firmly.

“Well, they were through the roof,” she told him anyway. “Leslie is on cloud nine.”

“Good for Leslie,” he said, taking down two mugs. “What's her next trick? Leaking my identity to drum up more interest?”

“She's not going to do that,” Ainsley told him. “If anyone other than us knows your identity, someone else could scoop us. She won't risk it.”

“Well, as long as it's in her self-interest, I believe you,” he replied, turning to look at her.

“You really don't like what I do, do you?” she said with a sigh.

“I don't like what _Leslie_ does,” he informed her. “I still have hope for you.”

“To speak truth to power, even if nobody wants to hear it?”

“You've been climbing hard to get your voice heard farther and wider. What are you going to do with it when you get there?”

She pressed her lips together, looking at him for a moment, then looking away, then looking at him again. “I guess I've been working so hard on climbing, I never really thought about that.”

“Well, I think you should think about that,” he told her softly.

She nodded, then slid off her stool to come around the counter and kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Malcolm,” she told him, stepping back around to pick up her coat and bag.

He gestured to the counter. “You don't want to stay for a cup of tea?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but... I think I need to get started on the narrative of what sort of reporter I want to be.”

“Let me know how it goes,” he said warmly.

“You know I will,” she replied with a grin, then disappeared out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for bearing with me. I considered doing something with the reactions of the team or Jessica or even Martin after the interview, but ultimately, this is a story about Malcolm and Ainsley and their relationship and I wanted to keep it contained to that. I love every character in this show and how they relate to each other. Hands down it's the best thing on TV right now. But that sibling relationship... it just hits me right in the feels.


End file.
